


Get Back

by kate_the_reader



Series: Who Are You [2]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M, dealing with the past, fallout from the job, negotiating the start of a new relationship, planning for the future, what comes after Paris
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-23
Updated: 2016-05-27
Packaged: 2018-06-10 07:25:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6945535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kate_the_reader/pseuds/kate_the_reader
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Riga is lovely, but Arthur has things he needs to deal with.<br/>The sequel to Who Are You?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Get back at him

**Author's Note:**

> As always, this is a better story due to the help and insight of chasingriver and mycitruspocket. Thank you both!

The room is lit only by the glow of his laptop screen as Arthur clicks the button that clears the not-so-secret-after-all Caymans bank account and transfers the entire amount to a Paris shelter for homeless teenagers. 

He closes the lid with a satisfying snap and turns away from the desk. 

Eames is sprawled across most of the bed, his face turned towards Arthur. His lovely mouth twitches. He opens his eyes. “Arthur?” he says, the word seeming too big for his sleep-slurred mouth. “Why are you all the way over there, love? Come back to bed.” He sighs and lifts the covers invitingly. 

“Yes,” says Arthur, “yes, I'm coming. I just had to … finish something.” 

“Good,” says Eames, and he’s already asleep again as Arthur slips in next to him, but he tightens the arm Arthur drapes over himself and sighs again. 

“You can sleep, Mr Eames,” Arthur whispers, running a finger down Eames’s cheek and across his mouth. “It’s done now.” 

He tucks his head into Eames’s shoulder and closes his eyes. Sleep won't come for a while yet, he knows, but lying in the dark isn't lonely anymore. 

Eames hadn't been inventing when he said Riga was lovely, and Arthur had found them a charming hotel. The summer weather is warm and the air sparkles over the river. They’ve spent the mornings wandering streets lined with medieval townhouses and churches, and the afternoons exploring each other. 

But Arthur has spent the midnight hours restless, chasing down leads, following the money trail his quarry had been too arrogant to hide well. Not that a more well-disguised trail would have deterred him for long. And now his patience and research skills have brought him a measure of satisfaction. 

“It’s done,” he whispers again, tracing Eames's collarbone, bumping his knees. “I did it.” He hears a harsh triumph in his voice and an echo of the anger he had felt in the dream washes through him again. The possessive rage that flared when he opened the shower room door and saw … he shudders. And saw that sagging ass and Eames on his knees under the shower spray. 

Eames, who had insisted it wasn't really him, except Arthur had seen him in the slender, unmarked, bland, so-young boy. 

They haven't spoken of it since that evening. Arthur has been hesitant to scratch at a fresh scab, if Eames is trying to move on, but he hasn't stopped thinking about it. 

It’s almost frightening, the intensity of his emotion. Arthur had been living on rage for months, with Cobb, but this is different entirely. Nothing in those feelings could compare in any way to the sick hurt of seeing Eames in that position. 

He wants to discuss it. And he doesn't. He is afraid to shatter this new thing between them, to squash it under the weight of his anger, to twist it into an ugly shape. 

So he lies awake in the hours after Eames has fallen asleep, after he has tracked his prey, and debates it with himself. 

He traces it back to the mess of feelings that boiled up when Eames was suddenly there, on that street in Paris, lightly trying to jostle him out of his fury at Cobb. When he saw how sad Arthur was and did all he could to lift the cloud. When he understood what Arthur needed, and took control. When he submitted to commands without question. 

That was surprising. In all the years they have known each other, Eames had never before given a hint of willingness to be commanded. 

His relationship with the rest of Cobb's team had always been a bit distant. He would join a job if hired, be perfectly friendly, though sometimes a little cool, then leave, back to Africa or South America or some other hideout. Well, Cobb's team — Dom and Mal and Arthur. Dom and Arthur. 

_Oh Cobb, I will forgive you. Maybe not just yet._

Nothing in Eames had ever hinted at his willingness to do whatever Arthur asked him to. Told him to. His teasing voice, that rich drawl, had only ever needled at Arthur. 

Which is why Arthur had so surprised himself by saying, in that scruffy bar, “Come back with me?” And Eames had shocked him by answering: “Of course”. And he had said: “You know that”, but Arthur hadn’t known. He’d been stepping into empty air. 

The memory of the walk to the Métro stop, how Eames had teased him with his touches, had been so … raw when they looked at each other in the train window. 

And oh god how Eames had responded when Arthur had virtually attacked him in the elevator! He shivers at the memory. 

And Eames had known what to do afterwards. Had known what Arthur wanted, had pushed him and taken control and … “How did you know when I never said?” he whispers into the curve of Eames’s neck. 

Eames stirs, his arm tightens across Arthur’s shoulders, his breath gusts warm on Arthur’s cheek, and that’s enough to lull Arthur into sleep, finally, even with his thoughts still churning. 

 

In the morning, he wakes late, when Eames opens the room door, flushed and sweating after working out in the small basement gym. There’s a steam room down there too, but Eames hasn't used it. 

“Morning, love,” he says, coming over to the bed where Arthur is stretching. He bends down to kiss him, and his damp hair brushes Arthur’s forehead. “Oh dear, I stink,” he says. Arthur lets him go, reluctantly, watching him walk into the bathroom in his tight gym shorts, the muscles of his back revealed as he pulls off his T-shirt. 

He gets up and follows him. “What do you want to do today, Eames?” he says, peeing while Eames washes, with Arthur’s soap. 

“Dunno, darling. Have you had enough holiday yet?” says Eames, peering out from under the spray. 

“Um, maybe,” says Arthur. He’s not sure what will happen next. _Will Eames go back to Mombasa and leave him to go back to his old life too?_ He looks at himself in the mirror as he washes his hands. His mouth is a tense line. 

“Oh, my love, no!” says Eames, stepping out of the shower and standing dripping behind Arthur. Their eyes meet in the mirror. 

Arthur understands Eames’s endearments, he thinks, from “love”, through “darling” and up to “my love”, which he has said only a very few times. He remembers the first time Eames said it, how shocked he had looked, at himself. 

He turns and steps up against Eames, wet as he is, takes his chin in his hand and kisses him, hard, and then lingering. 

“Then what, Eames?” he says, stepping back. “What’s next?” 

“I don't know,” says Eames, frowning slightly, “We’ll figure it out though.” 

 

 

 ******

 

“Shall I tell you what I've been doing, late at night?” 

They are sitting under an umbrella in a little square, drinking coffee. The shadows of the buildings still reach halfway across the space. Arthur shivers in the lingering morning chill. 

“If you want to,” says Eames. “You don't have to tell me everything, you know. You can keep some things …” 

“I know,” Arthur cuts him off, “but this is about us. So. You should know.” 

“Yes,” says Eames, “tell me then.” 

“I tracked his money. And I cleared his biggest secret account.” He frowns, drawing his finger through fallen grains of sugar on the table. “I hate him!” 

Eames reaches out and places his hand over Arthur’s, stilling the nervous movement. He doesn't say anything for a moment. 

“Oh darling,” he says finally. 

Arthur looks up, into Eames’s eyes, that unknowable color, and finds them absolutely serious. Eames bites his lip. “Oh darling,” he says again. He rubs his thumb across Arthur’s hand. 

“I hated him so much when I saw you there. I thought the feeling might get less … but it didn't. It hasn't. So I got back at him. It was probably stupid, Eames! I don't know. I had to though, you know? I had to do something.” 

“I understand,” says Eames. 

“I transferred the money to a shelter for homeless kids,” says Arthur. 

Eames snorts. “Good for you, Arthur,” he says. He glances round. The square is empty, the café waiter leaning against the doorway reading a newspaper. He stands, leans across the table and kisses Arthur, his mouth warm, and dark from the coffee. 

“Eames,” says Arthur, when Eames has sat back down, still holding his hand, “I did feel possessive, but I was angry for _you_. Not for myself, I don't think. I don't know …” 

Eames tightens his grip on Arthur's hand, but he doesn't say anything. 

“I have no right to be possessive!” says Arthur. 

“Yes, you do,” says Eames, so quietly Arthur almost doesn't hear him. Arthur's chest feels tight, he can't quite catch his breath. He nods. They sit in silence, listening to the city getting busier, drinking coffee, until the waiter comes to ask if they need anything else. 

They walk across the bridge, pausing to look down river, at the Freedom Tower thrusting up. It's no Eiffel. They’re not in Paris anymore. 

Arthur can feel his pulse in his throat. The rhythm is jerky, unsettling. 

“Let’s go back,” he says. 

“Where to, love?” says Eames. 

“To bed,” says Arthur. He reaches for Eames’s hand. It’s only mid-morning. 

“Alright,” says Eames, “anytime. You know that.” 

“Yes,” says Arthur, turning away from the bridge railing. 

Their shoulders and hips and hands brush as they walk back to the hotel. In the elevator, Eames crowds Arthur into the corner, pushing their hips together, kissing him with controlled aggression. Claiming him. It’s almost a code between them, these elevator moments. 

 

Many hours later, the sheets twisted and sweaty, bruises forming on Eames’s shoulders, on Arthur’s thighs, a glass knocked sideways on the floor, a late afternoon breeze cooling overheated skin, Arthur says, “What’s next? I could do this forever,” he licks along Eames’s collarbone, “but I suppose we have to go … Somewhere. Sometime.” 

“Mmmmm,” says Eames, running his hand along Arthur's rib cage, down the dip of his waist, coming to rest on his hip, “yes, I suppose so.” 

“Is Mombasa the only place you have a home?” says Arthur. 

“What? Oh love, that’s temporary. I rented a tiny place. I’m hardly ever there,” says Eames. “I had a place in Rio for a while. I lived on a boat in the Caribbean. Dreadful scruffy places, you’d have hated them. Do you have a place?” he says. 

“Not really … since Mal. Cobb and I, um, we had … have an apartment in Paris. That’s where he was staying. I left and went to the Plaza when we started fighting too much.” 

He laughs, relieved to have told this truth at last. 

“Darling,” says Eames, “you left your home? Ah, Dom Cobb!” he says, “I never liked him all that much. But now you’re homeless? Bloody hell, Arthur!” 

Arthur shrugs, traces the tattoo on Eames’s bicep with a finger. “It's okay,” he says, but he can hear how pathetic it sounds. “I'll get him to ship the rest of my clothes, that’s all I care about,” he says, trying to make his voice firmer. 

“We can go back and break in there, steal them away!” 

“Would you go somewhere with me?” says Arthur. He sounds so small, in his ears. “Fuck, Eames, I'm sorry.” 

“Whatever for, Arthur? Of course I'll do that. Or anything else you want me to,” says Eames. He looks sideways at Arthur, then gets up on an elbow to look at him more directly. 

“Do you really not know, yet? How relieved I was, in Paris, when I asked what you wanted, and you said: ‘I want you’,” Eames says. 

He leans down, and Arthur grabs the back of his neck to keep him there. “God, Eames,” he says. He can feel his fingers digging in, leaving yet more bruises. 

“I'll tell you what, love,” says Eames, “We’ll think of somewhere, then go back to Paris on our way there. Where do you want to go?” 

“Back to the States,” says Arthur. “Home.” 

And suddenly, he’s too tired to continue the conversation. 

“Of course,” says Eames. He lies back down, pulling Arthur closer, and knows, somehow, that they will continue later, but not now. 

_Home. So long since he has been able to even think of going back. Cobb’s been dragging him round the world, and Arthur does love Paris, but he’s tired of being a stranger._

 

The soft dusk of early summer is creeping through the windows when they finally rouse themselves to go out. At a corner table at the back of a little restaurant Eames circles back to their earlier conversation. 

“Where, in the States? Where's home?” he says. 

“Where am I from? Or where do I want to be?” says Arthur. 

“Both,” says Eames, “if you want.” 

“Am I really that mysterious?” says Arthur, “I guess I am. I'm not trying to hide. It's just that I'm better at finding out information, so I nearly always know more about anyone than they know about me.” 

“Indeed,” says Eames, raising an eyebrow, “but you didn't know about the boat, did you?” 

Arthur laughs. “No, I didn’t.” He leans back in his chair, takes a sip of wine. 

“Well, I grew up in Buffalo … I know, I know!” he says, when Eames raises an eyebrow again. “But I'm not going back there!” Eames laughs. 

“Have you ever lived in the States, Eames?” he says. 

“Well, you know, I've stayed all over. New York, LA. Part of a winter in Philadelphia … don't recommend that by the way. I've never had a home anywhere there, though.” 

“San Francisco?” says Arthur. “If it's not too much of a cliché.” 

“I can see you there, darling, coat collar up against the fog. Let's try that then?” 

And they don't have to discuss it more then. 


	2. Get back to Paris

The lines at Charles de Gaulle are long and shuffling, quicker for Eames on an EU passport than for Arthur, but finally they are free and step out into the summer evening. The lights are just starting to come on as their cab pulls up on Avenue Montaigne. The Plaza doorman smiles as he opens the cab door. “Mr Goldman, Mr Eames, welcome back,” he says. 

“A table at Ducasse at eight,” says the concierge in the lobby. 

“Merci, Monsieur!” says Arthur, and reaches for Eames’s hand. He sees the man catch Eames’s eye. Eames nods. 

“Oh darling!” says Eames in the elevator. “That favor you did him must have been a big one! Twice? Even after we blew off the last reservation?” 

“Well,” says Arthur, “I told you I’d take you another time.” 

Eames steps up close against him. “You always keep your word, don’t you?” he says. He pulls back, looking very intently at Arthur. “Yes, you do,” he says. 

Arthur can't help his shiver when Eames steps out of the bedroom to where he is waiting on the sofa. In a slim, dark suit quite unlike his usual flamboyant clothes, he looks utterly different. Older, and younger at the same time. He comes over and holds out his hand. “Would you?” he says, and drops a set of cuff links into Arthur’s palm. 

“God, Eames, I mean, fuck! Yes!” 

Eames smiles, his eyes crinkling. “Thank you, love.” 

“But how, Eames? This wasn't in your bag all along, I'd have known,” says Arthur. 

“I called ahead to Armani. Good thing they're so conveniently located,” says Eames with a shrug. “You’re not the only one who makes plans.” 

Arthur carefully inserts the silver cuff links, and keeps hold of Eames’s hand, pulls him down and kisses him hard, careful not to wrinkle their suits too badly. 

Eames’s mouth is red and curved into a smile as they walk towards the elevator. 

Dinner at Alain Ducasse is a leisurely ritual, one Arthur is determined to enjoy, if only he weren't so distracted by thoughts of getting that suit off Eames. 

“Don’t you want to go back to England, ever?” says Arthur. 

“Sure,” Eames says easily, “but I don't need to.” He frowns. “I meant it when I said I'd go anywhere you want,” he says. “Places don't mean all that much to me, you know.” He reaches across the table and takes Arthur’s hand. “It’s not _where_ I am that’s important.” 

Arthur’s heart trips in his chest; he can't say anything, but he tightens his fingers on Eames’s and nods. Eames nods in turn and they sit together, quiet, until a waiter arrives and sets dessert down with a flourish. 

Dinner is finally over, and they cross the hotel lobby to the elevator, hanging back to let another couple go ahead. Inside, alone, Arthur turns to Eames, runs his hand down the black tie patterned with subtle diamonds. “I love this suit on you,” he says, his voice thick. “I'm very eager to get it off you.” He slips his other hand round to Eames’s back, under his jacket. 

Eames raises an eyebrow. “Mm-hmm,” he says, “then you know how I always feel.” 

Arthur loves it when Eames undresses him. He loves watching Eames strip off his own clothes. He always goes very slowly, when Arthur tells him to. 

Arthur slips the knot of Eames’s tie down a fraction, right there in the elevator. Undoes his top button, runs a thumb down his throat. He can feel Eames swallow. Eames’s hands tighten on Arthur’s waist. “Darling,” he sighs. 

“Yes,” says Arthur, pressing in closer, “I'm going to strip you down, piece by piece.” 

“You already have,” says Eames, a catch in his voice. 

The elevator dings, and Arthur takes Eames’s hand. His heart is banging. It’s hard to breathe. “Come, Eames,” he says, tugging his hand, impatient. 

He steers Eames into the bedroom. Eames raises an eyebrow, but doesn't say anything as Arthur pushes his jacket from his shoulders. He stands still as Arthur leans in, kisses him, biting at his bottom lip, always so very tempting, so teasing. 

Arthur takes off the jacket, drapes it carefully across a chair. He mouths at Eames’s jaw as his fingers undo the knot of the black tie. 

Eames has shaved. His skin is soft, but Arthur feels a pang for the careful scruff that usually outlines his beautiful mouth, softly scraping. He drops the tie on the chair and starts on the tiny shirt buttons, dark lines slowly revealed under the crisp white cloth. Eames draws a shaky breath and catches at Arthur’s wrists, his fingers trembling. “Arthur,” he sighs, “I can't …” 

“Yes! You can,” says Arthur. “You must.” He runs his hands firmly down Eames’s chest, down his torso, lingering on the evidence of strenuous workouts, slipping his fingers under his waistband. “You will.” 

Eames is intent, his eyes gone dark. He bites his lip. “Yes,” he says. 

Arthur’s own hands are shaking as he starts on the buckle at Eames’s waist, dropping his eyes. He eases the zip down and sinks to his knees. Above him, Eames gasps. Arthur draws the belt from its loops and pushes the black wool cloth down Eames’s thighs. He stills his hands, leans in and savors the dark warmth of his groin, rubs his cheek up, drawing heaving, open-mouthed breaths. 

Eames has begun to shake. “Arthur,” he says, voice strangled, “Darling, please …” 

Arthur's forehead is pressed against his taut stomach. He nods. “Okay,” he says, and pushes him gently. Eames steps back, almost tripping, and sits down hard on the bed. Arthur shuffles forward on his knees. He tugs at Eames’s pants, gets them down to his calves. His fingers are clumsy as he tries to untie the laces of his shoes. 

“Fuck it,” he mutters, and Eames breathes a laugh. He bends down and pulls off his shoes, his socks. He keeps his hands low and Arthur understands. He undoes the cuff links and slips them into his pocket. He pulls off Eames’s trousers. 

Eames leans back on his hands, his white shirt still framing his chest, the band of his briefs a stark line across his hips. He is panting. 

“Will you,” he says, “will you … undress for me?” 

Arthur stands up, pushing on Eames’s thighs. He is still fully dressed. Eames tips his head back to look up. His chest is heaving. 

Arthur doesn't break his gaze as his hands start on his tie. He shrugs out of his jacket and lets it fall. Eames’s mouth quirks. Arthur acknowledges that with a raised brow and slowly undoes his shirt buttons. He holds out his wrists to Eames, who leans forward and pushes his cuff links from his sleeves, drops them on the bed next to him. He looks up again, expectant, as Arthur unbuckles his belt, his fingers stumbling as he tries to go slow, slow … 

“Arthur,” says Eames, drawing the word out, his voice a growl, “Arthur.” 

Arthur lets his pants fall and is forced to toe his shoes off so he can step out of them. He hops slightly, and Eames grins, revealing his crooked teeth. Arthur takes his chin in his hand, brushes his thumb across his mouth, pushes it in. Eames bites down, softly, his lips still curved in a smile. 

Arthur’s knees are shaking now with the effort of restraint and he kneels again, pulling off his socks. They are both in their open shirts and underwear. Arthur drops his forehead to Eames's stomach again, his hands to his thighs, and closes his eyes, trying to get his breathing under control. It’s hopeless, Eames's cock is hard and straining at the fabric of his underwear, his heat and his scent wash over Arthur. 

Eames brings a hand to the back of his head, pushes through his hair, scratches at his neck, dips under his shirt collar. 

“Get up here,” he says. He is as breathless as Arthur. 

Arthur stands up, and straddles Eames's lap, pushing his hands through his hair, tugging. Eames tips his head back, his throat working, the soft dip under his jaw revealed. Arthur kisses, open mouthed, along that tender space until finally, he reaches Eames’s mouth. They are both breathing too hard to linger. Arthur feels light headed. He pushes his hips forward, rocking up against Eames. They are both so hard, have been for ages, Arthur knows he can't maintain this restraint much longer. Under him, Eames is shuddering, almost sobbing, “Ah, ah, Arthur!” 

He falls back, pulling Arthur with him, thrusting his hips up. He gets his hands under the band of Arthur’s briefs, his broad palms cupping his ass, pushing the pants down. Arthur kneels up, kicks his way out of them and drags Eames’s underwear off. 

Now they are skin to skin, heat mingling. 

“Oh god! Oh fuck! Eames! Eames!” 

Arthur grinds down as Eames thrusts up. Leaning on his left hand, he glances down between them, grabs Eames's hand and drags it to their cocks, slicking their palms, closing his hand over Eames’s. 

Eames’s whole body jerks, bringing their hips even more firmly together. His other hand is clamped on Arthur’s shoulder, supporting him, barely. 

Arthur rolls his hips again as Eames’s hand slides up their cocks, his thumb grazing lightly. He tightens his fingers. Eames speeds the movement of their hands. They are both gasping. 

“Oh god,” says Eames, “did you …?” He jerks his chin at the nightstand. 

“Fuck, no!” says Arthur, “I didn’t unpack. Here,” he tugs Eames’s hand, “come here,” he says. 

Eames releases them and Arthur pulls his hand towards his mouth. He licks the palm, and Eames grins in open delight. 

“Arthur!” he says, as Arthur sucks his fingers into his mouth, raising an eyebrow. “Always a plan, darling,” he says. 

Arthur leans down and kisses him, his tongue feeling the bump of his imperfect teeth. “Yes,” he says, guiding Eames’s hand back. 

Their rhythm has not been badly broken. Their hands wrap again. Eames arches into Arthur and comes. Arthur can feel his tremor from his pelvis to his toes. He follows, and slumps onto Eames’s chest, their sticky hands finding each other again as he shifts to the bed. Eames strokes down his back. Arthur lies with his head on Eames shoulder until he feels himself drifting. 

“Housekeepers,” Eames murmurs, into his hair, “let me go.” And he carefully shifts Arthur’s head to the pillow. 

 

******

 

“The apartment is in the 11th arrondissement,” says Arthur as Eames steers him out of the hotel with a hand at his back. He can feel the warmth through his jacket. 

“Do you want to check where Cobb is first?” says Eames, “or do you just want to take a chance?” 

“I don’t know,” says Arthur, and he really doesn't. 

Doesn't know whether he wants to confront Cobb, show him Eames, show him Arthur with Eames, or if he just wants to get his things and delay the inevitable until another time. 

“Do you want me to do it for you?” says Eames. “You don't have to come, you know. I can handle Dom Cobb.” 

“No!” says Arthur, “God, Eames, I don't“ need you to manage Dom for me! I can do it! Fuck!” 

Eames holds up his hands. “Okay, okay,” he says, “no need to bite my head off, Arthur, I'll back off.” 

“Oh, Eames,” says Arthur, his stomach twisting, “I'm sorry. God, let’s just get this done! Damn Dom!” He shakes his head, trying to fling off the taint of conflict. 

“Of course,” says Eames, reaching for his hand. 

“Do you want him to know? About us?” says Eames. Arthur glances sideways at him, trying to gauge what Eames wants. His eyes are unreadable. 

“I don't know,” says Arthur. “I mean, yes, of course! I want everyone to know. But also, no, it's none of his business. I don't want to share.” 

He glances at Eames again, and sees his mouth curved into a smile. 

“Oh darling,” he says, “I'm not sharing with Dom Cobb. Heaven forbid!” 

Arthur can't help smiling too. 

“Let’s just see what happens,” he says, “I'm sick of planning.” 

The apartment is on the third floor and there is a rattling iron cage elevator. Eames bumps his shoulder against Arthur’s as it ascends. It is friendly, with none of the heat that has inevitably flared up in hotel elevators since they started this. 

“This way,” says Arthur as they step out, “down here.” 

He gets his keys out, but Eames catches his hand before he can find the right one to insert in the lock. He brushes a kiss across Arthur’s temple. Reassuring. Claiming. 

“Yes,” says Arthur, “let’s get this over.” He unlocks the door, pushes it open. The apartment is quiet. “Dom?” he calls, “It’s me.” 

“Arthur? What the hell? Where’ve you been? I called and called!” 

Cobb steps into the hall from the living room and stops. 

“Oh,” he says. “Hello, Eames. I thought you’d’ve have gone back to … Mombasa, was it?” 

“Clearly not,” says Eames. “Hello, Cobb.” His tone is pleasant, but Arthur can hear the undercurrent of hardness. 

“So you’re back now, Arthur? Just like that? You have no idea what a mess it was. It’s taken me every bit of goodwill I have in the business to get it cleaned up! How could you just walk out on the job like that, eh? Since when have you left a job unfinished?” 

“Since that fucker attacked Eames!” Arthur spits at him. “I told you.” 

He turns into his room, leaving Cobb in the hall. Eames follows him, closes the door and pulls Arthur to him. 

“God, Eames,” says Arthur, “why can't he just leave me alone?” 

“Well, darling,” says Eames, at his ear, “he’s pissed off. Shall we just pack your things and go?” 

“Ugh, no. I suppose I have to deal with him, Eames,” says Arthur. “Now or later. And you’re here now.” 

Eames runs his hand down Arthur’s back, leans in, and kisses him, hard. 

“Yes, I'm here,” he says. “I'm here.” 

Arthur allows himself to relax into Eames for a moment. But he has to get this done. 

“My suitcases are in the box room, Eames. It’s through the kitchen. Will you get them for me?” 

“Of course, love,” says Eames. “Monogrammed, I imagine?” 

Arthur can’t help the laugh that escapes him. “No, they’re the black ones. Cobb has scruffy gray ones.” 

Eames runs his hand up Arthur’s back and steps away. Arthur turns to his dresser. 

He hears Cobb say something to Eames in the kitchen but can't catch the words. 

He can hear Eames’s deeper voice. “Not now, Cobb,” says Eames. “Just let him do this, eh?” 

He comes back in carrying Arthur’s cases. 

“Here you go, love,” he says. 

Arthur is taking things out of his drawers. Folded shirts, sweaters. He transfers them to the smaller case. It’s soothing; packing is something he’s very good at. Eames unfolds his suit bags from the larger case and turns to the closet. 

“Look at all this!” he says, “look at you.” 

“What?” says Arthur, “My suits? They’re just suits. Nice suits.” 

“All your armor,” says Eames. 

“Is that what you think, Eames, really?” 

“Yes,” says Eames. “I thought you’d never let me see underneath.” 

He takes them out, one by one, running his hands down the lapels. 

“Come here,” says Arthur. He reaches for Eames’s hand, pulls it against his chest. “Here’s underneath. You saw inside, too.” 

Eames looks straight into his eyes. “Yes, I did. I do,” he says. “Thank you, Arthur.” 

“I needed you to,” says Arthur. 

He turns away, blinking, busying his hands with his ties. Behind him, Eames reaches for shoes on the closet floor. 

"Okay," says Arthur, zipping the big case closed. “That’s done. I guess I better go face the rest.” 

Eames steps up behind him, slips a hand round his hip and an arm across his chest. Arthur leans back against his solid bulk, turns his face into his neck and breathes in his scent, a mingling of Arthur’s fresh soap and Eames's own spicy cologne over the warmth of his skin. 

“Let’s go deal with him,” says Eames. 

Arthur opens the door and walks down the hall to the living room. They never furnished the place very fully, just a couch and some chairs Dom found at a market. There are some books he’d like, but nothing else. Everything else can be replaced, now he has his clothes. He feels Eames at his shoulder, and the lightest brush of the back of his hand against Arthur’s, reassuring. 

Dom is sitting in an armchair, flipping through a magazine in an obvious attempt to seem nonchalant. He’s failing. 

Arthur sits on the couch, so Eames can sit next to him. 

“Dom,” he says, “I've packed and I'm leaving now.” 

“Leaving?” says Dom. “Where are you going? I’ve got a job lined up in two weeks.” 

Arthur glances at Eames, and takes a deep breath. 

“We’re going to the States,” he says. 

“The States? You can’t go … there,” says Dom. He slaps the magazine shut. 

“No,” says Arthur, “that’s you. I can go h— back to the States.” 

Eames shifts next to him, pressing his thigh along Arthur’s. 

“What about this job? It’s a good one. You'll enjoy it. I need you to run it,” says Dom, his voice a little strained. 

“You'll find someone else,” says Eames. 

“What, Eames? What’s it got to do with you? I don't need a forger. You can leave anytime you want,” says Dom, looking sharply at Eames. 

“You'll find another point,” Eames says quietly. His voice is firm. “We, Arthur and I, are going to the States. Arthur needs a break. He’s taking it. Maybe later, he'll work with you again.” 

Dom narrows his eyes at Arthur, looks from him to Eames. 

“Oh, I see,” he says. “I get it. Well, you finally got what you wanted, eh, Eames?” He smirks. 

“Yes,” says Arthur. “He did. I did. We did.” 

“And now we’re going, Cobb,” says Eames, standing up. “Anything you need from here, love?” 

Suddenly, Arthur doesn't want to spend any time taking his books off the shelf and putting them in a box. 

“No,” he says, reaching for Eames’s hand and walking down the hall. “I’ll be in touch, Dom,” he says. 

He steps into his room, which already feels entirely impersonal. His two suitcases are in the middle of the floor, suit bags draped over the handles. Eames lifts the bags, hands them to Arthur, and takes the suitcase handles. 

“Come, my love,” he says, “let’s get a cab.” And holds the door open for Arthur.


	3. Get back home

Arthur is exhausted when the plane touches down in San Francisco, for all that he’s been asleep with his head on Eames’s shoulder for hours. 

After leaving Dom’s apartment — he doesn't think of it as his home anymore — he had been eager to be gone from the city and from being foreign. 

When they’d first moved there, it had been an adventure. Navigating the streets with Mal, laughing with her and Dom in bars, eating croissants for breakfast. The boulevards had enchanted Arthur, their vistas promising glamor and excitement, lined with shops selling the sort of clothes he had only fantasized about owning as he paged through magazines in his bedroom in Buffalo. 

But the reality that settled on him and Dom afterwards had been a heavy fog, only lifted by Eames. And now Arthur wants to be an American in America, not Paris. They could have gone to New York, but that feels too close to his past. He doesn't want to go backwards, only forwards, and going west is a cliché that feels right. 

As the descent starts, Arthur opens his eyes and sees Eames’s neck, flushed with sleep, warm, delicious even after their long flight. He is curled towards Eames, held under his arm, surrounded by his scent. He wants to kiss Eames under his jaw, in that tender space, but he resists as the cabin attendants offer hot, damp towels and people start shuffling and collecting their things. 

Eames’s arm tightens around his shoulders. Then he stretches and turns to Arthur. 

“Hello, love,” he says. He takes Arthur’s hand, brushes his thumb across his wrist in a gesture Arthur has come to love. “Ready?” he says. 

“Yes!” says Arthur, “God, yes!” 

But the reality of America, as they walk through the terminal and through passport control, feels alien to him. Being able to understand everything he hears with no effort is both comforting and an assault, and Arthur feels more foreign than he has expected to. His clothes stand out in a crowd dressed for leisure travel (even Eames is out of place amid the shorts and sneakers). Arthur feels brittle. 

Eames looks at him with a frown. “We need to get to the hotel and sleep, love,” he says, “You’ll feel better then.” 

“I guess,” says Arthur, wishing he could shake the feeling of being a child surrounded by loud adults. Which is ridiculous, he’s the one dressed as an adult, with a matched set of luggage for which he has paid an exorbitant excess weight charge. He’s the one who can plan and execute a complex dream-heist, who can handle weapons down there and topside. 

Eames places his broad hand on the small of Arthur’s back, and he leans back slightly into the reassuring warmth and support before leaning forward on the handle of his laden baggage cart and pushing determinedly through the milling throng. 

The hotel isn’t quite as nice as the Plaza (nowhere is), but the shower is hot and the bed is comfortable and Arthur falls asleep against Eames’s broad chest, his hand making slow circles on his back, his deep voice vibrating in Arthur’s head as he talks about nothing important. 

Arthur wakes before Eames. He turns over towards him and stretches, aligning their bodies. Eames stirs and murmurs but doesn't wake. Arthur is relieved, a bit. Having Eames there is infinitely better than not having him, but being with anyone all the time feels … too much, sometimes. He and Cobb had gone days in the Paris apartment hardly talking, at times. It had often been lonely, but sometimes it just felt comfortably quiet. 

He slips out of bed and looks quietly through a case for running gear. It's a while since he ran alone, or at all. He dresses quickly and turns to leave. Behind him, he hears Eames stir. 

“Darling?” he says. 

“Just going for a run,” says Arthur, “do you mind, Eames?” 

“Mind? Of course not. Why’d I mind?” 

Arthur steps back to the bed, runs his hand along Eames’s shoulder. “Thank you,” he says. “I won’t be long.” 

The sky is muzzy with morning fog as he steps into the street. It’s quiet and gray and Arthur shivers, turning west, towards the water. As he runs along the waterfront, the sun burns through the fog. 

The anger that kept him going over the last few months had been soothed by Eames. But it was reignited by what happened in the dream. _Taking revenge had felt good, when he did it, and leaving Cobb was necessary, but where does it all leave Arthur? In a city he’s never lived in, with a man he can hardly believe is here, without a job for the first time in years. Nothing to plan, nothing to do, nowhere to be. And Eames, why has he so easily agreed to come with Arthur? Doesn't he have anything better to do?_

Arthur turns back to the hotel. 

“Why are you here, Eames?” he says as he walks into their room. 

Eames isn't there, the shower is running. Arthur opens the bathroom door. 

Eames is under the spray, his back to the door. The muscles in his back are flexing and he has one hand braced on the tiles. 

_Oh_. 

Arthur closes the door. He’s sweaty, and starting to feel cold and he needs to pee and _god if only he had his own space._

The shower shuts off. Eames comes out of the bathroom naked. 

“There you are, love! Good run?” he says, pushing his hand through his damp hair. He comes over, steps in close to Arthur. 

“Don’t, Eames,” says Arthur, turning his face away, “I'm all sweaty and gross.” 

Eames steps back, baffled hurt in his eyes. “I don't mind sweaty,” he says. 

“Ugh,” says Arthur, “Just let me shower.” He steps around Eames into the bathroom and closes the door. 

In the shower, he lets the hot water pound on his shoulders as he stands with his head bent, arms slack at his sides. _The look on Eames’s face_ … Arthur’s stomach twists and his breath catches. He stands there immobile for a long time. Finally, he reaches for the soap. Hotel soap, not theirs. 

He frowns at himself as he shaves. He can't hear anything from the bedroom. His hand shakes. He can't delay any longer. He opens the door. Eames looks up from the newspaper he’s reading, crooks an eyebrow, but doesn't say anything. 

“Oh god Eames, I'm sorry!” says Arthur. He can't seem to move forward. 

Eames holds out a hand. “Come over here?” he says, frowning slightly, biting his lip, “Please, Arthur?” 

Arthur goes over. “Eames,” he says, stopping short, “I don't know what’s wrong with me. I'm not fit company today. I'm sorry.” 

Eames stands up, extends a hand, runs the back of his fingers down the side of Arthur’s face, tentative. “Arthur,” he says, “don't be sorry, love.” 

Arthur turns towards the touch, his pulse jumping. 

“It’s okay,” says Eames, “it'll be okay.” 

“It's not you, Eames,” says Arthur, “it’s me.” 

Eames’s other hand comes up, he runs his thumb softly down the back of Arthur’s neck. 

“Come and have some coffee,” he says. 

“Alright,” says Arthur. “Thank you.” 

They sit in silence drinking coffee. Eames reads the paper. He is wearing sweatpants and a loose T-shirt. His hair is sticking up at the back. He is frowning at something he’s reading. He looks up, smiles at Arthur and stretches out a foot, nudges Arthur’s foot, but he doesn't say anything. 

“Why are you here, Eames?” says Arthur. 

“Because you asked me to come, Arthur,” says Eames, no longer distracted. 

“Yes, but don't you need to get back to your own life?” 

“This is my life,” says Eames, “I'm not somewhere I don't want to be. But do you … do you not want me here after all?” His eyes have gone dark. 

“No! God, no, Eames!” Arthur reaches for Eames’s hand. “I just feel so … I don’t know. I don't feel myself. Is this a mistake? Is this too fast? What did I do to Dom?” 

“It’s not a mistake, to me, no,” says Eames, “Bloody hell, Arthur, I've wanted you so long it doesn't feel fast to me. But maybe it is too fast for you? Do you want me to go away? Do you need me to leave?” 

Arthur can hardly breathe. 

“No! I … maybe?” he says. “Fuck! Fuck! Oh, Eames,” he says, gasping for breath, “I'm such a bastard. Why am I such a bastard?” 

He stands up, pushing his chair back hard. He goes into the bathroom, stands bracing his hands on the sink, staring into his own eyes. His chest is heaving. Eames comes to the door. 

He is frowning. Their eyes meet in the mirror. “I'm going for a walk now,” he says. “But I won't leave. If you need space, if you need time … Well, we’ll talk about that. But I'm not giving up at the first hurdle, Arthur.” 

He closes the door and Arthur can hear him getting changed. He suddenly feels terribly, terribly tired. He waits until he hears the room door shut. He goes out and crawls into the bed. On the side where Eames slept. He is shaking. 

  ************************

Eames walks down the hotel corridor. They’re on the fourth floor, not too many stairs. He can't face a hotel lift. 

Outside, the day is sunny, breezy, and the waterfront is full of dog walkers and cyclists, cheerful and unconcerned, while Eames can hardly breathe. He walks fast, until he’s panting and starting to draw curious glances. A fit-looking man gasping for breath while walking in the sunshine. 

_Can Arthur really mean what he said?_

Eames is used to his own company, living for so long in dodgy flats in foreign cities, hanging out with semi-strangers. Always watching, tucking away details, cataloguing. 

_But has he been blind to Arthur? Had he been blinded by his own relief when Arthur said “come back with me?” and “I want you” and “we can start”? When Arthur submitted to his hands and his body? When Arthur issued commands? When Arthur shot Lubakov? When Arthur asked him to come to America, to come **home** with him?_

Eames walks as far as the promenade stretches, hours of walking. The sea breeze scours his face, burns his skin. Finally, he has to turn back. There is no running away. He must have this out with Arthur. Too many years have passed. Too much longing. If Arthur isn't ready after all, he must tell Eames. 

Eames opens the room door quietly. Arthur is in the bed, huddled under the covers. His face is turned away. Eames crosses the room, takes off his shoes and crawls onto the bed behind Arthur, lying down along his back, the quilt between them. He reaches out and touches the nape of Arthur’s neck, where his hair forms a point. 

“Arthur,” he whispers. “Don't send me away, please.” 

He presses a kiss onto Arthur’s warm skin. 

“Eames?” Arthur murmurs, “Eames?” 

“I'm here, love, I'm right here if you’ll let me be,” whispers Eames. He can't decide if Arthur is awake. 

“Eames, you’re still here?” says Arthur, not turning over. 

Eames nods, pushing his forehead into Arthur’s hair, but he keeps quiet. 

“I’m such a mess,” says Arthur. “I panicked. I’m not used to this. I want to be. I don't know if I can.” 

Eames wants to reach out, to speak, but he stays quiet, waiting for Arthur. 

“I do want to be!” says Arthur, vehement, “I do!” His voice catches. 

He turns over, frowning, his dark eyes full of tears, mouth twisted. 

“Eames,” he says, swallowing hard, “I’m terrible at this. Have I fucked it up already? Before I could even tell you?” 

“Tell me what, Arthur?” says Eames, catching Arthur's hand. 

“That I … that I want to do this. That I want to try. Eames …” Arthur bites his lip. “That I … that I … love you,” he says, breath escaping in a rush. He takes a deep breath. 

“I want to tell you that I love you, and I want you. To stay. With me. I want to stay. With you. If you’ll have me …” 

“Oh Arthur,” says Eames, “of course I'll have you!” He pulls Arthur to his chest. “Of course I'll have you! I'm staying. I told you.” He runs his hand down Arthur’s back, feeling a shiver. 

“But I never told you either. Arthur, I've loved you such a long time, how did I forget to tell you?” 

“Well, I thought so,” says Arthur, sniffing. He smiles. “It was pretty clear, actually,” he says, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. 

“You too,” says Eames. “I was pretty sure.” He kisses Arthur’s wet eyes, his cheeks, tasting the salt. His mouth. 

Arthur gasps and deepens the kiss. He reaches out and touches Eames’s face with gentle fingers, hot against Eames’s chapped skin. Eames leans into the touch, brings his other hand up to grip Arthur’s shoulder. He pulls Arthur on top of him. They’re in an awkward tangle of bedding and clothes and there is nowhere Eames would rather be. 

Arthur settles his weight on Eames. 

“Eames,” he says, “I will fuck up again, you know. But I will always try to let you in.” He leans back, frowning. “I’ll always try.” 

“And I will try to give you space,” says Eames, “to let you be quiet when you need to be.” 

Arthur frowns and nods. “Thank you, Eames,” he says. 

“God, I've been in bed all day. And you’ve been outside all day. Will you come take a bath?” 

“If you'll come eat, after,” says Eames. 

“Fuck yes, I'm starving!” says Arthur, getting to his knees. He leans down again. “You smell like the sea,” he says, kissing the hinge of Eames’s jaw, licking under his chin, “you smell wrong.” 

  ************************

As they lie in the bath, washing with Arthur’s soap, Eames says: “You know, love, I do have to go and close up that Mombasa flat sometime. Anytime.” 

Arthur reaches for Eames’s hand on his chest. “Of course you do,” he says, “you came to Paris for us and you came here for me. You have to go there for you. Of course you do.” 

“I don't have to go now. Or I can. There’s not much there. Books. Some shirts I'd be sorry to lose. Bits and bobs.” He presses a kiss to the back of Arthur's neck. “I can give you space, darling, if you need it.” 

“Are we really going to live here?” says Arthur, turning his face towards Eames. “Do you really want to? It was a whim of mine, but we don't know anyone here.” 

“I told you, I don't mind where we live. We can rent an apartment, see if we like it. We can move on if we don’t.” 

“Yes, Eames. We can do that,” says Arthur. He lets his eyes fall shut. 

“Oh no you don’t, love,” says Eames, “we’re starving, remember?” 

“Yeah,” says Arthur, “I really am. God, what a day!” 

“Arthur, you’re allowed to fall apart. You never do it at work. You don't have to pretend for me. I won't for you. Ever,” says Eames. 

Arthur sits up and twists round so he can look at Eames properly. His eyes are dark, his mouth firm. 

“No pretending,” says Arthur. 

Eames smiles. 

There is nowhere Arthur would rather be. 


End file.
